


Raise Me

by ozomin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Somewhat torture fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozomin/pseuds/ozomin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel stole glances into their eyes, looking around the group before nodding.<br/>“Brothers and sisters,” Castiel paused, “Dean Winchester is saved.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first supernatural fic, there's less destiel in this part than in the second which isn't here yet. So bear with me and please enjoy. Also Dean says some pretty demeaning things and I want to say that they in no way support my views on anything.

Raise Me

 

 

The angel felt the bare earth between his fingers. Rough and gritty. He promptly brushed the ground the size of his hand free of grass and rocks amid the stares of other angels watching from a few feet away.

“Castiel, it is crucial we save him.” One said from his left, “lest we fail--”

“That’s not going to happen,” Castiel cut in, “he will--without a problem--be saved.” He stole a deep breath, releasing the small knot of doubt harboring in the depths of his stomach. “Quiet now.”

Palming the soft dirt, Castiel began to speak his voice loud in the clearing despite his hurried utter of Enochian. Castiel’s bright blue eyes reflected the ground beneath, staring intently on small tendrils of dried grass and bits of crushed pebbles, leading up like a scattered path to the bare cross he knelt in front of.

Handcrafted from old wood, rough and uneven, a mark for the grave of the man he had been sent to save. His body surely spoiled and unrecognizable beneath feet of solid and sure dirt. His gaze then moved to the sky. Crisp white clouds migrating at a snail’s pace across an unblemished blue backdrop. His last look of the beautiful earth, his father’s creation, before he was thrust into the pit of that forsaken dwelling of demons.

He finished the spell with shallow breath, clamping his eyes shut as the Earth shook violently beneath him and began to sink.

Castiel could only assume his brothers and sisters who had chosen to accompany him were seemingly submerging beneath the surface as he was. The bright light of the afternoon through his lids plunged into darkness. In a split second reaction to the sudden drop in temperature, Castiel flared his wings, black and defensive, fully expanded, his eyes snapping open as well. Only to meet black. Warmth began to seep from nowhere, he could feel his skin dampening with sweat, only silence to assure him. Heat was enveloping him and despite his straight face, Castiel couldn’t stop the panic from rising inside his gut, forcing itself upwards constricting his throat. The warmth edged its way across his skin like wildfire across a field, eating at him like acid and yet his skin was still intact and untouched.

The claustrophobic feeling, whether Castiel was sure if it was real or not, encased his body in what felt like roughly packed dirt, he was almost positive about the sediments lodged between his feathers, uncomfortable and unable to fabricate, yet when he flexed his fingers, they moved unhindered in the dark emptiness. Sweat beaded profusely at his brow, trickling down his temples and Castiel briefly wondered if his comrades were experiencing the same. The scalding air bit angrily at his skin, flares of icy cold across his face and neck, smarting to his senses, only for touch to conclude that his skin was undamaged. This form of half done damage ate at Castiel, he supposed that was what was supposed to happen, turn him mad before he even got to Hell. Like a scratch that didn’t exist and yet it burned at his skin.

It was times like this Castiel questioned the motives of these almost impossible tasks and he rarely asked questions, he placed all his allegiance in his Father, and he’d never change that. Dean Winchester was the man Castiel was sent to save and he was damn well sure he would complete this job if it was the last thing he was to do, if it was fated. And Castiel never questioned fate. If it happened, then it happened. If this man had faith, Castiel would find him. The reason for Dean’s descent to Hell despite his vital job in Heaven seemed to baffle him. What did this man do to deserve his foot tied and dragged down with a demon?

A sudden flash of light in the darkness drew Castiel’s attention. Like a handful of flashbulbs, going off simultaneously, lighting up like melting marbles, vein-like and glassy alerted Castiel of movements other than his own. Like blinking stars in the night sky, his eyes continually caught sight of the purifications as his brothers and sisters fought in a foggy silence. He kept his ears keen, if that was possible for any sound, a grunt a hiss, but none came, he was seemingly trapped in a quiet clamping down on his other senses, dulling them. The darkness encased the demons like camouflage, this was their territory now. Castiel’s eyes could at the very least capture a blurred swatch of what he was sure was a demon. Blended like paint into the blackness.

Castiel blindly shot an arm out, his palm meeting something gritty and hot. He mouthed an exorcism, no use in saying it since he couldn’t hear himself. The bright white light lit up his face in severe relief, blocking out anything around the purification, it went dark just as quickly.

The picture began to grow grainy with an oncoming throb in his temples, a thrumming ache affecting his head, a hot rolling boil beneath the scalp. Heat was still prickling up his spine and his skin, an uncomfortable feverish feeling. His wings twitched behind him involuntarily, as if trying to shake off the sensation. Everything else around him faded into nothing, something he couldn’t, no matter how dangerous, be bothered with.

At this point the only thing Castiel could focus on was the pain, white hot and consuming his very being. He feared his vessel may not survive. His non-functioning insides bubbled sickeningly, Castiel’s throat heaved involuntarily and he gagged, air squeezed forcefully from his lungs. He was imploding. Castiel squeezed his eyes closed. A small spark of hope, albeit weak, that it would all cease.

And it stopped.

The frigid air only stopped his breath further. Strong waves of defenselessness crept up on him and his blood froze in his veins. Castiel let out a shaky breath. That was all he could conjure up once his lungs began functioning again. Albeit weakly. It was all he could do to avoid being heard. His wings bristled slightly behind him. A reflex. And he pulled them in closer to his body. A indelible maze of saturated dark greens and blacks meet his eyes, still tunneled from the headache. The walls staggered in delirium as Castiel stumbled along them, unsure of whether his mind was playing tricks or if the structure actually functioned the way it did. That constant feeling of the monster around the corner, only to find nothing again and again, festered in the pit of his belly like a lead weight. Castiel was alone, and he could only speculate what had happened to his brothers and sisters, still fighting mercilessly against demons or stuck stumbling around the way he was.

Castiel padded curiously down a long hall, his stance still ready for battle despite the flicker of fear rising in his throat. Fingers skimming the poorly plastered black walls, something solid and stable in hopes of stopping the spinning in his head. At the end of the hall, Castiel spotted a door, standing curiously still despite the all swirling in his head. Castiel could feel the change in pressure on the other side of door from clear across the room, there was something else, other worldly on the other side. Completely dissimilar compared to the menial structure of a building.

The door appeared to be made of dark wood, ornately carved, Castiel recognized the sigils and symbols, and polished look ending in an uncharacteristically rusted copper handle. Wafts of tepid air emanated from the spaces under and over the door, warming the vicinity. Castiel, as he approached the entryway could still see the puff of his breath when he exhaled, the cold rising bumps up and down his arms. His visual of breath promptly diminished as soon as he was feet within reaching the door. Hands reaching cautiously, taking the door in hand after an experimental skim of his fingers, out of fear it might scald him. But nonetheless, it was perfectly ordinary, cool despite the heat from the other side.

Drawing his wings in close, Castiel prepared himself with a deep breath before turning the handle and pushing. He froze in the sudden oncoming current of scalding air, hot and steaming when it came in contact with his skin, hair dampening and mussing in every which direction.

Without prior knowledge, the hall behind him disappeared, and Castiel found himself falling. His wings unfurling in reaction to slow the fall. The real cave of hell blurred by him, a never ending hole of deep reds to frigid blues, heat smothering and encasing him from all sides like a coffin. Castiel had only fallen a few tens of feet when his wings caught, slammed mightily against a lattice like structure of solid looking veins. Eyes wincing and tears gathering against the edges, he lifted one wing sloppily from one of the branches, heart thundering from his sudden vulnerable position. Castiel looked above him, the doorway had gone and all he could see was dapples of murky red sky through thick vines of dark, slimy purples and gritty reds, black and glossy pinkish bits falling but never reaching him.

It was then Castiel could finally hear the sounds of Hell, like a cap lifted from his ears, away from the hole of black in which the demons dwelled to the halls of some distorted haunted house, the pit of fear festering wildly in reaction to nothing at all. A perpetual roar, piercing and wrathful. Screams and shouts eagerly rode the air with a sickening fluidity. Chanting seeped into his ears like a forbidden secret, old words, they told of hurt an enlightening, torture only Castiel could have forged, of fallen angels and men, seeking guidance and instead finding fear and fire. Castiel’s ears rung with the shrilly pitched cries of thousands upon thousands writhing as their organs were extracted and their eyes branded and thousands of other methods, all of them twisting Castiel’s stomach into a thick heavy knot, the bile rising in his throat. The thick odor of sulfur reached his nose and he huffed pointedly to clear the air in front of him, but to avail, the smell settled heavier than ever. Smothered with rancid heat, Castiel sought to expel it.

He shifted both wings this time, testing out limits and discovering injuries if he had any. Below him was an endless web of solid red veins, seemingly hovering in clouds of black and red and burnt yellow smoke above an abyss. Millions of chains clinking loosely and rasping loudly when being pulled taut.

And above him, he spotted a dark bubble, surface marred in what looked like tar and white foam, a sparkle settled in his gut. The soul of Dean Winchester, dancing in the soul plane, in fear, in pleasure?

Castiel focused in on the soul, his hand reaching towards one of the gritty branches above his head, in the direction of the orb. If Castiel had it correct, the pit appeared to have a likeness to the holy land. Only in the aspect of having a separate hell for every forsaken soul sent below. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, it fled, he hadn’t forgotten about the rain of fresh and charred arteries and entrails. Those poor spirits hanging from the top of an endless pit, insides repeatedly eaten by crows, beasts and demons alike. Hearts drumming hard enough and loud enough to break free from an inescapable cage. Those dark glossy marbles were the literal worlds of hell for specific people.

Dealmakers.

Castiel clamped his eyes shut and his hands seized a fistful of dirt and brush.

A location appeared from the nothingness. Castiel pivoted his head, observing, taking in all that he possibly could. In a rusted grey sky above a dry brush clearing, the air humid and thick. A barren desert despite the reach of dark branches towards the sky, charred trunks buried haphazardly into the ground. He half expected them to fall over. Standing precariously in front of him was a dilapidated warehouse. Metal shafted walls rusted and torn. The path and the surrounding area were overgrown with weeds and other plant growth.

He could feel the souls inside the building, inside himself, tingling and shifting. Their beings shaded in fear and panic and happiness? That was just one, Castiel shook his head of the sick thought and made his way around the building. His trench coat catching on the growth. As silent at he could. The unavoidable rustling was sure to attract attention, he heard a twig snap behind him. Castiel turned on his heel abruptly, his wings spreading as far as they could. Intimidating and menacing.

The face, like a too real Halloween mask was the first thing Castiel noticed. Sunken cheeks in what looked like charred skin, eyes solid, strong and black stared back at him. He reared his wings up higher, as if they were about to beat at the ground and take him to flight.

“Demon.” Was the only thing spoken before disappearing from the demon’s sight and then reappearing a second later right behind the adversary. His palm quickly covering the grotesque mask and shielding the impending purifying light with a one large wing. Castiel lowered the body onto the ground quietly. His eyes shifted to the building and a rickety wooden platform rested against the rusted walls. He rushed to them, his hands grasping firmly and climbing to the only window near the top of the building.

Castiel could finally hear the screams. No longer just trembling souls in his senses, but real tell-tale signs of pain and distress. The agonizing cries stopped Castiel in his tracks. He internally battled with himself on whether or not he should see what was happening to his Father’s creations. He didn’t know if he could take it. But he had to, he had mission and it would be wasted energy if he didn’t even assess the damage. Castiel poked his head above the sill. He almost couldn’t stop himself from crying out.

Was that really Dean? That shuddering soul laughing in front of a poor human on a slab? Dean Winchester, the one he was meant to save?

+++

 

His boots scuffed the gritty asphalt, splattered with blood.

“You can’t--” She wheezed, running out of breath. Her wide hazel eyes followed the every move of the man in front of her, her pupils darting manically between his face and the razor in his hand. His hard green eyes unyielding and unrelenting, full lips in a mocking smirk. She let out a loud shuddering breath, her chest heaving, her whole body straining against the restrains, veins visible in her throat.

Dean snorted derisively, “Son of a bitch, you really think I’m going to stop if you look pitiful enough? Well here’s lookin’ at you kid, you already look like shit. Stop whining…” Dean drifted off, his lip curling. Just the thought of cutting out her tongue gave him a floating sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He looked curiously at the razor in his hand, the way it glinted in the dim lights of the swinging bulb above their heads. It entranced him. A weapon he was able to wield the way he could any gun. This was the first one he’d been given and fuck all if he’d lost it, that would cost happily, on Alastair’s part, more abuse both physical and verbal on his own. The thought was able to erupt both a shiver of fear and sick pleasure that settled uncomfortably in his stomach, effectively ceasing the momentary happiness he’d had when the thought of extracting the woman’s tongue appeared in his mind.

He would eagerly shy away from the realization that a disturbed part of him enjoyed whatever it was that Alastair happened to enforce upon him. That was the part Dean would gladly give away, to someone else if he was told.And that was how Dean ended up here, holed up in a abandoned warehouse, apparently created from his own imagination.

The air was thick between them, kept hot and smothering by the rusted metal slats that made up the walls. A rickety fan spun lazily above them, doing nothing for the ventilation and sending small shafts of dusty light into the room. He made his way through broken asphalt littered with dirt.

Dean brought the razor to her clavicle, he slid it carefully along the protruding bone in vertical strokes, blood flowing free from the deep cuts, her breath hitching briefly before resuming its heavy trembling. A shrill cry filled the room as Dean exposed the bone, the skin breaking out in gooseflesh as it receded from loss of tension. The torture had just begun. Dean liked the idea of many vertical lines across the skin, like some grotesque textile. The thought of seeing the result sent a thrill through him, a electric shock up his spine.

“Stop---Please!!” She pleaded, begged, like it was her last hope and it was.

“Look,” Dean pulled the cutting tool away, “you’ve got to be here for a reason right? The way I see it, this is just you paying for whatever the hell you did, doesn’t that sound fair?” Dean pursed his lips like a child arguing with his parents. Innocent, but truly not in the least. “So, what did you do anyway?” Dean let the hand holding the razor fall casually to his side, “Fuck too many guys? You kill your husband?” He tilted his head to the side, feigning interest. “If you don’t tell me…. Rachel was it? Look, Rachel, if you don’t tell me, then this little razor here,” he brought it up and turned it over in his fingers, “I’m going to use it to show you what the rest the rest of your body looks like with all these tiny cuts, of course deeper as I continue, if I get deep enough, I may be able to show you your own intestines if they fall from the cut, hopefully before you die from shock. But then again, you’re already dead, so you should survive right?” He said gleefully, “On second thought, just keep it to yourself, that sounds pretty awesome--”

“Please, I--I, my husband, he--he--he killed-- he attacked me,” She cried breathlessly. Her voice shook, “Are you gonna let me go?” Dean could hear the slight tinge of hope in her tone.

“Baby, did you honestly think for one second that I’d let you go? You have a soul that desperately needs to learn its lesson, and I’m the man for the job.” Dean smiled in response to the sheer look of terror in her eyes, the blood had drained from her face, she was a pale as a ghost, she might as well have been one. Her cracked lips were perpetually parted, teeth gritted, tears leaking from her eyes, down her reddened cheeks, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. The perspiration sheeted the rest of her body, a worn ripped tank top stopped at her midriff and her bony legs were only covered by a raggedy piece of cloth, that could no longer pass for a skirt. Solid black restraints curled around her wrists, ankles and across her stomach. To finally be in control of a situation, if this was the only way he would be, then Dean was going to revel in it.

This helpless girl. She wasn’t the only one who was trapped. All she could see was Dean’s callous and unfeeling nature. What she couldn’t see was the endless amount of chain trailing behind Dean’s feet. Binding his feet and hands and neck, pulled taut and unbelievably tight around his middle, knocking all the air from his lungs. He was a puppy on an abnormally long leash, free to roam but as soon as he got too far he would be yanked back, violently. And that usually led to a brutal reprimanding that he was convinced he deserved.

“I’m sure that isn’t all,” Dean dragged the tip of the razor gently against her temple, as if he were afraid he would cut her if he hurried. “Go on, baby, I sure you could talk yourself out of this if you tried. No one goes to hell for defending themselves, much less being the victim.” The tip drove beneath her skin and she made a sound that was a distorted mix of a wail and a whimper. At the same time, his free hand resting across her bare stomach, her stomach retracted away from his hand in fear, but it wasn‘t enough to truly escape his now painful clutch to her sweaty skin. “Go on, you can tell me.” Dean leaned into her, his tongue venturing out to lick the bead of blood that had dripped free. Coppery and strangely satisfying. He could feel her trembling beneath him. Dean shifted on his heels, the chain clicking soundlessly against the rusted metal cart of torture devices behind him.

“HE--I--I was unfaithful--he caught me--” Her words drowned in frantic sobs, “Let--let--me go…” she slipped into incoherency, her mouth hanging open her breaths wheezing and full.

“Good girl, on second thought, not that good,” Dean pulled away, he circled her, “He just found a permanent situation to a permanent problem. What man wants something to do with a useless whore like you? He doesn’t want you and you could be sure about that.” He stated roughly.

“Why am…I here? You are empty--” She stammered went silent, a high pained whine the only sound she had left, “asshole--” She spit.

“Didn’t anyone tell you those words aren’t tolerated by your kind? Ladylike, I guess?” Dean pursed his lips, “you aren’t exactly in the position to say those things are you? God you have no idea how much I want to cut out your tongue, feed you your insides…” Dean drifted off, as if reminiscing. And in sense he was, there were things he did to avoid more punishment than he already received.

There was Alastair’s voice reedy and dangerously quiet in his ear. “You’re not special Dean, you never were,” His long unnatural fingers around his wrists. “however, you are special to me, I haven’t been gifted with anyone like you in centuries, and I’m going to bask in it Dean, you will too…you remember that…” Dean remembers the first time he cut someone, not in defense, but for recreation. Alastair, right up behind him, his hands in the demon’s unusually strong grip. Guiding his own across the man’s skin, tearing and freeing, blood flowing wildly, the amount honestly scared Dean.

But he’d always seen blood, just not like this. And because of his inevitable hesitance, Dean was forced to lick the spilt blood off the floor later than day. He could never quite get rid of the taste, no matter how many times, Alastair induced him to vomit. The days aren’t really days if not just an endless span of time, never sleeping, the pain was perpetual. It just seemed to dissipate when he was inflicting it upon someone else, just an hour or two of elation sufficed for Dean. It balanced out what he’d end up taking right after.

“You expect to be awarded for defending yourself?” Dean bellowed at her, his voice hoarse and gravel thick, their noses almost touching. “So what? You weren’t the victim sweetheart, it’s time to face the facts. No one fucking cares that you defended yourself. You lost and it’s all your fault in the first place, stupid bitch,” Dean reprimanded her like a parent to their child, his razor making a sudden sliver down her sternum, a loud scream erupted, her body writhing, trying avoid or break free. “You can’t get out of this, so just sit back and enjoy the ride baby.”

+++

 

Castiel turned away from the window, his back against the wall just as the scream reached his ears. His knuckles white against the sill. He found himself powerless, he was under orders and apparently that had to happen, it was fated to be and Castiel could do nothing about it. His stomach churned and Castiel swallowed to suppress the bile rising in his throat. Though that woman could only see empty-ness in Dean’s eyes, Castiel knew there was something else present. There had to be. Castiel wouldn’t have been sent here to save him if there wasn’t.

Those seemingly vacant eyes, impressed themselves into Castiel’s eye lids. They would haunt him. He shook his head of the negative thoughts, there had to be something different with Dean, this wasn’t him. Castiel could just feel it. The sudden ominous wave of peril crept over Castiel, raising his haunches, wings floating out near his sides, the demons had caught on and they were coming closer.

The screaming had stopped.

Castiel poked his head once again above the sill. Dean had gone.

“Damn.” Castiel stood up, his insides twisting uncomfortably, he had to find him. At this point, Castiel felt like he was the only one left to carry out the mission, the other angels had surely bought Castiel the time he needed.

Castiel jumped gently, with the aid of his large wings, to the ground, the brush crunching beneath his feet. He briefly closed his eyes, sensing the trembling soul that was Dean’s. It was beneath the warehouse. Castiel focused on Dean’s location.

And he was there.

Invisible and inconspicuous in the corner of the room Dean was currently teetering through.

If that could even pass as a room, it resembled a run-down mental asylum cell. Peeling white walls gave way to granular foundation. The floor was dirt and Dean kicked up dust as he made his way into the corner of room. The smell was unbearable, and Castiel watched as Dean clutched at his stomach, his eyes clamped closed, before leaning against the wall of the corner, his finger reaching down his throat and then the heaving that ensued followed by a quick spit of what looked like a mix of phlegm and blood.

Castiel had barely blinked when he caught sight of the demon grabbing Dean by the back of the neck and turning him onto his knees.

“A pretty good job out there Dean.” the voice was thin and dangerous. The demon was slender as well, pale eyes, almost a milky white, scruff edged his face. His cheek bones were prominent as well as the simpering smile.

“Fuck off!” Dean spit again. “Alastair.” he said lowly.

“You drank that’s little girl’s blood Dean, why isn’t that….unhealthy.” Alastair’s eyes bored into Dean for a fleeting moment before he kicked Dean forcefully in the stomach. Dean doubled over, heaving, unable to recover before Alastair’s foot connected once again with Dean’s torso. He rolled onto his side, coughing severely as blood spluttered over his cracked lips.

Castiel froze is his corner, he could swear that Dean was looking at him. Eyes seeing nothing but blank discolored wall, looking for a help he knew wouldn’t come. His eyes switching back to Alastair.

“Sonofabitch.” Dean said his lips in a hard line. “I didn’t want to, I had to. You tempted me--”

“Of course I did, you’re my student Dean,” Alastair grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. “I want you to learn Dean, what is learning without a little variety? You need to discover what works for you.” the demon tilted his head slightly, “I want you to grow, you’re here for quite awhile Dean, might as well enjoy what you do… don’t you enjoy it Dean?” Alastair sneered.

When Dean didn’t reply, he let out a raspy bark of a laugh.

“You enjoy it Dean! That’s nothing to be ashamed of, I’m sure your brother will still accept you--”

“Shut up about Sam!” Dean gritted his teeth, blood splattered across both their faces.

“Just who is in charge here Dean?” Alastair demanded, his fingers moved to curl tightly around Dean’s throat.

“Alas--Alastair!” Dean’s voice was hoarse, barely there. He went limp in submission.

“That’s my boy Dean, clean yourself up, I’ll be back with the hooks soon.”

Dean was now desperately gasping under him, under the tight curl of fingers around his throat. He needed air and he needed it now. He nodded slightly in compliance, his face reddening, sweat beading on his brow.

“You don’t win here Dean.” Alastair gave his charge a pitiful look prior to shoving Dean back to the ground by the neck.

And he was gone.

Dean’s chest was rising and falling rapidly for air. He froze at the sudden scream coming from the lab. In response he covered his face with his hands, knowing he’d failed. Castiel watched Dean lay still, his chest still starving for air. The lab had gone silent, as the had the soul that was residing in there. One soul he couldn’t save. Castiel clenched his fists. The demon had also gone, Castiel assumed to retrieve the hooks he’d spoken of earlier.

“Dean Winchester.” Castiel said brows furrowed as soon as he’d made himself known.

Dean’s head snapped in the direction of Castiel, quite comically save for the blood and sick spilt down his front.

“There’s absolutely no more time.” Castiel approached Dean who was backing away.

“Who are you?!” Dean was against the wall, propped up on his elbows.

“That’s a question for another day.” Castiel stooped quickly before Dean could react.

The burn forced Castiel’s eyes closed. His hand vice-like across Dean’s shoulder. Angry welts rose hot and waxy beneath Castiel’s fingers and he only clenched tighter. The shuddering soul seeped into Castiel and he yearned to sooth it. In that moment, Castiel vowed to protect Dean, this soul, this hurt, seared into its very being, it was unacceptable and the sheer amount of damage inflicted onto it begged Castiel to take action, reverse it. As much as he could. Castiel wanted to do it.

And they were gone.

Castiel held his breath as demons swarmed them from all sides. He could still feel the slight warmth inside himself that was Dean’s soul. Dean had nothing to worry about, Castiel would protect him, to the ends of the Earth. That purpose that Dean had to fulfill, it was vital and Castiel wouldn’t fail at this point, now that he’d gotten this far.

It was no longer nothingness, it was the crowd of charred faces and black eyes, heated and frenzied. Castiel flared his wings angrily, this was the last layer of Hell, defeating these demons would lead them both to salvation. His hurried muttering of Enochian gave way to the blazes of white, purifying them as quickly as the words left his mouth. The earth was within his sites, Castiel reached and he grabbed onto a rough slab of wood. His breath stilled.

Dean’s casket.

The space had gone silent, a pure white span of blank canvas, Dean’s disfigured body lying pitifully in front of him. They were safe now, out of Hell. With Dean’s slumbering soul still inside him, he began to mend the body.

The smell alone wrinkled his nose. His calloused hands hovered above Dean’s torn body. Greens, blues and blacks marred the skin and the deteriorated interior of the carcass. Castiel started there. His gritty entrails began to mend and redden, glossing with fresh blood. Curdled blood liquefied and flowed, tendons repaired, strands binding, taut in their places. Castiel stitched the skin across his legs, torso and chest.

The result smooth and warm. Deans arms firm and solid at his sides. The paleness of his skin deepened as life arose beneath it. Lightly tanned and sensitive. Dean’s body was so fragile beneath Castiel, he thought it could destroy itself if he made a wrong move. But Castiel would never do that, he would take the utmost care of a soul this important. This precious.

When it came down to it, Dean was truly beautiful. Oh so fragile, just human. Just bones, muscles and skin. A beating thrumming heart. So physically alive and Castiel could without a second thought feel how dead inside he really was. That guilt and regret rattling deep in his body. It seeped into Castiel, so unusually foreign, taking him like a quick tide. Drowning him. Overwhelming him.

Castiel clutched at Dean’s worn shirt, only to pull away like he’d just stuck his hand into a flame. He instead clamped his eyes shut, brows drawn together. This this here was the real Dean. The one smothered in self doubt and pain. The one Castiel had witnessed basked in it. What Dean was feeling, and now Castiel would never resurface, this was as close as Castiel found himself getting to the hunter. He chuckled bitterly.

His father had made them humans, so perfect, they clung to their flaws like lifesavers in a flood. It was what made them what they are and what Castiel found about them Dean, so absolutely gorgeous.

Castiel placed his palm against Dean’s warm still heart and it began to beat. Slow, strong and rhythmic. His hand hovered down Dean’s torso and his chest began to rise and fall with new breath. Shallow exhales racked his body and his cracked lips parted involuntarily. At last, Castiel stared into Dean’s face, his own tilted in curiosity. Tan skin, smooth and littered with freckles. With gentle fingers, Castiel lifted the lids of his eyes, dry, barely there and unseeing. He closed them gingerly and whispered to himself.

“You will awaken soon Dean Winchester, you will once again see this earth.” He lifted the lids once more to the sight of a glossy surface and iris’ alight in an all encompassing green. Still unseeing.

The subdued warmth of the soul inside him, lit up in a smarting heat.

“You know when your body is near?” Castiel mumbled, “You are alive again Dean Winchester.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, his hand finding its place once again on Dean’s shoulder. The handprint rising once again across the skin. Settling as a faded red scar, like it had been there for years. Castiel placed his other palm against his chest, the Enochian words spilling from his mouth with a practiced efficiency. His blue eyes lit up, icy and unseeing as well. Veins of cerulean crept down his arms like cracks, leading to the hand he had connected to Dean’s shoulder. The branches of blue crawled across the hunters face, the rest of his body glowing dimly. The heat beneath Castiel’s fingers intensified, he gritted his teeth and fastened his hand tighter onto Dean.

With a final wave that had Castiel almost believing he’d burnt his vessel’s limbs, he finished the final verse, attaching the soul the body. Castiel peeled his eyes open slowly, his hand never leaving the skin of the hunter, he stared intently into the whole human. Alive and now thinking and feeling.

“You will not remember this meeting Dean, I will appear to you when you awaken.” Castiel mumbled.

Castiel blinked once again, and dirt surrounded him, he was once again above Earth, on the surface. He stood up and surveyed the site, the trees had fallen around the hunter’s grave.

“Castiel,”

Castiel turn on his heel, now facing the group of angels who had accompanied him. Their wings fluttered restlessly behind them, despite the length the had gone to smooth out the suits they wore. Still slightly wrinkled beneath clenching and unclenching fingers.

Castiel stole glances into their eyes, looking around the group before nodding.

“Brothers and sisters,” Castiel paused, “Dean Winchester is saved.”


End file.
